What we left in the backyard

Paula V. Ayala López
Departamento de Inglés
Facultad de Humanidades, UPR RP

she dug holes behind the house with her brother,

soft knees scratching and sinking into soil

grubby hands and bare bones greedy with hunger

for just a tiny spec of the globe

fingers curled into the ground in greeting

an answer under her nails, dirt clinging

¿te puedo acompañar?

she didn’t know what to look for

a treasure, an escape, striking gold

a tunnel to the other side of the world

an ocean to swim in, a universe apart

the roots once glued to the skin of her heart

maybe she left them to grow beneath their home

to seep into the island and make of it a friend

one that she could call her own, but then

she tripped and the tendrils ripped

from the rest of her veins

the rhizome is still there, though

with a map she never learned to read

maybe that’s why she doesn’t know

the earth as well as she wants to

still, leftover strands grew into a half-decent tangle

of worrisome vines and lovesick flowers

but she imagines going back

knocking on the door

hello, sorry to bother but

i think i left a part of me

growing under the tiles